


and it's you who hangs the moon (can we talk soon?)

by capebretons



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, M/M, Makeup Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capebretons/pseuds/capebretons
Summary: Mitch is wearing Dylan's boxers and Dylan's Coyotes sweatshirt. It says Strome on the back and everything. Dylan clutches at the countertop, and his knees are shaky, and it feels like those old mornings, when he saw this every morning, and he still owned a little magic part of Mitch Marner.





	

Mitch has glitter on his face, and he glows. Dylan's rubbing his eyes, and Mitch is swaying in his doorway, illuminated by the lights of the hallway. He's backlit, and Dylan can see the curve of his ear, the stray hairs on his head, and the slight quake to his shoulders.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Dylan's saying, and he wants to be yelling, he wants to close the door, but he can't. He can't. Not when it's Mitch.  
  
"Miss you," Mitch says. "Dylan, I love you."  
  
"Christ," Dylan's awake now. It doesn't matter that it's three in the morning, that Dylan's got training tomorrow morning. Mitch is clearly drunk - Dylan can smell the Svedka on him from five feet away. "Get in."  
  
And Mitch falls into Dylan, and Dylan barely catches him. Mitch's got his face pressed into Dylan's bare chest, and it's not even the first time.  
  
Dylan drags Mitch into his apartment, because Mitch's legs are useless now, how did he even get here? Dylan lives on the eighteenth floor. That takes a lot of thinking. Or memorization. Mitch practically lived here, back in that first summer when they were anchored to Toronto.  
  
Mitch jolts, runs into the kitchen. Dylan's still, just in his old Otters sweatpants, listening to Mitch puke into the sink. It doesn't sound like a lot. Nothing like the shit that's come out of Marner's mouth before. And then there's silence, and then running water, and Dylan shuts his eyes, and tries to figure out if he's happy Mitch is here. He shouldn't be. He shouldn't be.  
  
"Dyl?" He hears, and Dylan's will to fight shatters, and he opens his eyes. Mitch looks so young, so small, and there's a quake to his shoulders that wasn't there before. His eyes are rimmed with red. Dylan doesn't want to hold him and Dylan doesn't want to kiss his forehead and Dylan doesn't want to ask him why now.  
  
"You okay?" Dylan hears his own voice crack.  
  
"Better, now," is all Mitch says for a long while, and then they're just staring at each other. It's very clear, the second Mitch realizes Dylan's not wearing a shirt, because he's suddenly looking at Dylan's face with practiced intent. "Um. I'm sorry."  
  
"For puking?" Dylan's confused.  
  
"Among other things," Mitch says, voice soft, unsure.  
  
"Among other things," Dylan repeats.  
  
There's a little pause, before Mitch is rushing. "Can we talk? I promise I didn't come here just to throw up."  
  
"Yeah," Dylan hears himself say, because he's never been able to say no to Mitch Marner. And then there's this little glimmer of something, a flash across Mitch's face, until it disappears into hesitation again. "But not tonight."  
  
His face falls. Dylan's not sure he even realizes. "Do you, um. Do you want me to go?"  
  
"Don't be dumb," Dylan rolls his eyes, and he pushes past Mitch, to the living room. He's fallen asleep on his couch enough times this summer to know how shitty it makes his back feel in the morning. He'd do it again, though, because he's a fucking moron who doesn't learn.  
  
He glances back at Mitch.  
  
"You can take my room," Dylan says, quiet but sure.  
  
"No, man," Mitch frowns, and his face does this thing, and Dylan used to kiss the crease of his eyebrows until it smoothed, until Mitch was laughing again.  
  
Dylan presses his lips together, hard. "It's cool, seriously," he says, and his voice has a rasp that wasn't there before.  
  
They stare at each other for too long. Dylan's looking at all the pieces of Mitch that used to be his - where his ear met his jaw, where his tongue wet his lips, the inside of his wrists - and it burns and it burns and it burns.  
  
He turns, walking into his bedroom. He hears Mitch follow with a staccato thump of footsteps, until they're alone with a bed, and that's never been a great thing for them. Dylan tries hard not to think about what happened last time they were alone with a bed.  
  
Wordlessly, Mitch wriggles out of his clothes. It's not even meant to be remotely sexual, but Dylan still looks at the floor. When he looks up, Mitch is staring at him, and in the soft light of the bedside lamp, he's still glowing.  
  
"Why is there glitter all over you?" Dylan can't keep himself from asking, and he's already trying to swallow it down, already trying to keep himself from going back.  
  
Mitch said he loved him.  
  
And then there's a soft pink on Mitch, because he blushes with his whole body, and Dylan hates himself all over again. "I was at a gay club."  
  
Dylan wants to laugh. He would, really, if this wasn't so awful. "No, you weren't."  
  
"Yeah," Mitch says, defensive. The pink on his ears, his chest, turns darker. "I went with Auston."  
  
Dylan arches his eyebrows. "Auston Matthews knows you're gay?"  
  
Now Mitch's crossing his arms, his defensive stance. "Yeah, he does. He's why I'm here."  
  
And there's a creeping cold somewhere deep in Dylan. "Are you dating him?"  
  
Mitch's chin juts out, defiant. "No, Dylan, come on."  
  
"Then why are you here, Mitchell?" Dylan's drowning in it, in the dip of his collarbones and the cut of his hips and the muscle built in his biceps, the muscle that wasn't there the last time Mitch was in this room. Dylan can't do this again.  
  
"I told you, Dyl," Mitch says, soft, helpless. "I told you."  
  
He's so drunk, he's so drunk. Dylan can't. He won't. "Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."  
  
He goes then, because he can't do anything else, and his feet carry him to the sofa. He falls into it, face first, and squeezes his eyes shut. _Miss you, Dylan, I love you, Dyl, Better now, I'm sorry, Can we talk, Do you want me to go, I told you, I told you, I told you_.  
  
  
There's sunlight streaming through the bay window in the living room, and Dylan startles awake. His apartment smells like bacon. The kitchen TV is on. Something is burning.  
  
He knows it before he even remembers last night. It's Mitch. Because Mitch makes bacon first, and watches TSN while he makes his breakfast, and he likes his toast burned. Mitch makes himself at home wherever he is.  
  
Then Dylan remembers last night, and he takes another few seconds before he gets up.  
  
He goes to his bedroom first, to change into something that's not OHL sweatpants. He puts on real shorts and a shirt that he's pretty sure is either Connor's or Ryan's, and brushes his teeth. He stares at himself in the mirror for the long time, and wills the bags under his eyes to go away.  
  
He's still rubbing at his eyes when he walks into the kitchen, and he doesn't see it right away. But when he does, Christ in heaven, he does.  
  
Mitch is wearing Dylan's boxers and Dylan's Coyotes sweatshirt. It says Strome on the back and everything. Dylan clutches at the countertop, and his knees are shaky, and it feels like those old mornings, when he saw this every morning, and he still owned a little magic part of Mitch Marner.  
  
He coughs, because it's easier than saying I have missed this.  
  
Mitch turns, and there's a little half-smile on his face, and Dylan's breath is gone. "Hey, man," Mitch says, soft. "Bacon's on the table. Eggs and toast are next."  
  
"You didn't have to do that," he says, and he wishes he was brave enough to ask him to leave. He really wants Mitch to leave, he really wants Mitch to get back in his bed.  
  
"I did, though," Mitch shrugs. "I came to your house, shitfaced, threw up in your sink, and then made you sleep on your own sofa."  
  
"You didn't make me do anything," Dylan says, finally finding solid ground in his own house.  
  
Mitch stiffens at that, and Dylan realizes what he's said.  
  
"Yeah, I did," Mitch says, and it's so quiet, Dylan might have imagined it.  
  
It's silent for a little bit, then, while Mitch butters the toast and plates the eggs. Dylan stands, stares, then realizes he must look like an idiot, and sits down at the kitchen table. Mitch joins him a minute later, setting their plates down. A year ago, Dylan would have called him a housewife, and Mitch would have blushed, and Dylan would have gotten a blowjob while Mitch wore an apron.  
  
The only sounds in the kitchen are the clinking of silverware as they eat.  
  
Mitch finishes eating earlier, because he eats as he cooks, and he watches Dylan. Dylan stares purposefully at his food, and when he's done, he looks up.  
  
"You still want to talk?" Dylan asks, and he knows he does.  
  
"Yes, please," Mitch says, soft.  
  
They stare for a minute more, and Dylan longs for him.  
  
"I do love you," Mitch starts. "And I do miss you."  
  
"Okay," Dylan says, and his voice is surprisingly steady, surprisingly calm. "Is that why you came here?"  
  
"No," Mitch says, and it's a quick punch. "If it was, I'd have been here the day after we broke up."  
  
That's another punch, but it sinks a lot deeper than Dylan thought it might.  
  
"I told you," Mitch continues. "It's because of Auston."  
  
"But you're not dating Auston."  
  
"No, I'm not dating Auston," there's a gentle exasperation in his voice, and Dylan's missed that. He hadn't even realized he's missed that. "But we were hanging out last night, and we went to get sushi at the place you and me used to go to, and I said something, something dumb, like _Dylan used to get the shrimp tempura_ , and Auston was like, _you talk about him all the time_ , which I do, but that's not the point."  
  
"So then what's the point," Dylan's never been all that patient.  
  
Mitch blushes again, and Dylan stares at his plate again. "He was like, you need to get over this, and he took me to that gay bar that's like a block away from the Tower, and I'd never been somewhere, like, gay, before, and I couldn't stop thinking about how fucked everything got, towards the end. It was so good, and then-"  
  
"So awful," Dylan finishes. "Yeah."  
  
Mitch looks at him, lost. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."  
  
"I know you are," and there's some give to Dylan's voice. He doesn't... He still wants this. He knows he does. He's fooling nobody when he pretends he doesn't. He wants all the mornings with Mitch in his clothes and burned toast and Mitch sleeping in his bed. "I am, too."  
  
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Mitch says, and there's the wrinkle between his eyebrows. "God. You know you're good. I made you dump your girlfriend, because I thought I was mature enough to have a boyfriend, but I wasn't even mature enough to say that I'm gay."  
  
"We were going to break up anyway," Dylan says, his voice small. "It's not like I was ever straight."  
  
"Still," Mitch says, and Dylan can see it, he can see how this has eaten him whole.  
  
"Mitch," he says it firmly, because Mitch will go where he's pushed. "You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do. My girl and I broke up. That's not... That's not what hurt."  
  
Mitch's mouth opens, closes, before he finally sighs out. "Yeah. I know."  
  
"I called you, after," Dylan's talking without his head, mouth open and words falling out without thought or pace. "I called you, and I was so excited, because I loved you, and I thought we could be together, because you promised we could. I wanted you so bad, Mitch, God, you knew that." He's breathing hard now. "What fucking happened? What made you beg for me, then disappear for four months?"  
  
"I couldn't," Mitch's crying now. "I was scared, and I fucking couldn't. I'm so fucking sorry."  
  
"You could, though," Dylan's not going without a fight. "You could do it. You acted like my boyfriend. You slept at my house, you met my parents, you and me fucked every day we had off. Why couldn't you do it?"  
  
Mitch shrugs, helpless. "It made it real, when you guys broke up. I had to face it."  
  
Dylan wonders why he couldn't face it, when Mitch said he loved him their last night in Florida, once they'd been drafted. They snuck out of the party, because Connor was getting all the attention anyway, and made out in the handicap bathroom in the lobby of their hotel.  
  
Dylan can still feel the tremor in Mitch's hands, because he was so much more that night, brimming with something bright and hopeful. Dylan had wanted to swallow him whole, wanted to keep Mitch's light with him always.  
  
He'd said I love you, Dylan, I've never been this happy, and Dylan hadn't, either.  
  
"It's been four months," Dylan says, finally. "Four months ago, I called you, and you didn't call back, and now you're here."  
  
There's a wide silence, then, because there's no more of the story to tell.  
  
Mitch swallows. "Ever since we stopped, I've been saying it to myself. Like, I wake up, and I'm like, _I'm gay_. I trace it into the ice with my stick. I told my parents, I told my team. I barely even said that word, before."  
  
Dylan's just staring at him, now. All the words are gone.  
  
"And I don't think I can be myself again. Not without you."  
  
"Not without me," Dylan repeats softly, and he's flooding with Mitch, and he doesn't know, he doesn't know.  
  
"Yeah, man," Mitch shrugs, and there's a semblance of a smile on his face as he wipes his eyes. "You ruined me for anybody else. I'm a codependent fuck. You know that. You have me."  
  
Yeah, Dylan does. During those good days, Mitch used to sit in Dylan's lap for meals, and Dylan actually used to feed him. Mitch texts all the time because he doesn't know how to be alone. He talks and talks and talks, and Dylan loves him.  
  
"I know that," he murmurs, and he tries out a smile.  
  
Mitch stares at him, searching, and then nods. "So. Um. Auston, he, he told me to come here. And to ask you if there was, um. If there was any way."  
  
"Any way?" Dylan knows. Dylan wants to hear him say it.  
  
"Any way we could-" He stops himself. He thinks. "Any way I could get you back. Because I'm ready, now. I promise. I'll be so good to you, Dylan. I'll never burn your toast and I'll kiss you first thing every morning and I'll-" his voice breaks a little, right here, "-I'll come out, if you ask me to."  
  
Dylan shakes a little at that.  
  
They stare at each other for a little while. Mitch stops crying, keeps waiting. Dylan's breathing goes back to normal, and then he says, "Wearing my underwear has to be your least subtle move, man."  
  
"Am I wearing your underwear?" Mitch asks, in mock-shock that's only dampened by the quiver in his voice. "Shit, man, I'm sorry. That's on me."  
  
"That's on you," Dylan nods, agreeing, and his smile widens. "You are such a manipulative asshole."  
  
For a split second, Mitch's face falls. "I love you so much," Dylan finishes, and Mitch launches himself at Dylan.  
  
They're kissing like it's draft day. Mitch's straddling him, hands all over Dylan, flighty, unsure of where he wants to be. Dylan grabs them, pulls them up to his hair. Mitch moans a little, tightens his grip, and Dylan pulls him closer.  
  
"Missed you," Dylan lets himself be honest as Mitch's mouth moves to his neck. "Missed this."  
  
"Holy fuck," Mitch breathes out against Dylan's jaw. "You are so dumb. I'm literally never leaving. You're stuck with me forever now. Sorry."  
  
"Good," Dylan's laughing, and he feels so light. "I don't even fucking care."  
  
Mitch's shaking with laughter, and they're both crying a little, because finally.  
  
  
It's been so long since Dylan's been inside Mitch, a long time since he's been able to lay him down and hold him like this, to whisper in his ear, to hear Mitch beg like he does. He opens up so pretty for Dylan, he's so loud, he lets everyone know he's Dylan's. It's almost too much, seeing him flush like this, seeing those tears prick at the corner of his eyes as he pleads for more, pleads for harder, pleads for Dylan.  
  
He'd tell everyone, if Dylan asked him to.  
  
Dylan comes inside him, and pulls out slow, while he's kissing Mitch through his. He feels him tighten, hears the soft whimper, and Dylan could live in this moment forever and die happy.  
  
Mitch is lying still while Dylan cleans up, curled up in his bed with his eyes on him. He's sleepy and soft and malleable, and Dylan loves him more than anything in the world. This is not news.  
  
Once he's done, he crawls in next to his boyfriend.  
  
"You don't have to come out," he says, once Mitch has octopused himself around Dylan comfortably. "I can't ask that of you."  
  
"You can, though," Mitch says softly. "I'd do it. I'd do it for you."  
  
"Do it for you, if you're gonna do it," Dylan murmurs. "I'm happy with this."  
  
"You're a man of simple pleasures," Mitch agrees, teasing.  
  
"You're not a simple pleasure," Dylan argues. Mitch Marner is a twisted, complex, beautiful thing, and they've both got a little bit of scarring. They're better that way.  
  
"Don't tell me what I am," Mitch sniffs, and curls closer to Dylan.  
  
  
Dylan wakes up a few hours later, slow and sleep-dumb. Mitch is next to him, no longer wrapped around him. He always used to start that way, and he always ended up on the other side of the bed, starfished with only his hand still clutching Dylan's.  
  
He still sleeps like that, and he still loves Dylan.  
  
Dylan goes back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first hockey fic! Hope I got it right. Title from the Arkells' "Hangs the Moon."


End file.
